Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

box?" she asked, after Debbie had kissed her hello. "Is it something for me?" "Yes," Debbie said. "What?" the little girl asked. "The most beautiful dress in the whole world." said Debbie. The little girl clapped her hands. "Can I wear it for my birthday?" she asked. "No," said Debbie, "but someday, darling, when you're a big girl, then you'll wear it." "Oh," said Carrie Frances, disappointed. Debbie smiled. "You're right," she said. "It's nothing that'll overjoy you now. But someday," she said, "someday it's going to be the most special dress of your life." She took her daughter's hand. "Do you want to see it," she asked, " — before I put it away, upstairs in the attic?" "Okay," said Carrie Frances. And they walked, together, towards the stairs. . . . "What a touching story," our secretary, Cookie, said, brushing aside a tear. "You know, it's a shame, that if Debbie ever gets married again — and let's face it, she probably will — she won't be able to wear this particular dress herself." "Yes, it's a shame," another girl, an artist said. "Like I mentioned before, a girl who marries a second time can never, never, wear white. Its a tradition. A tradition nobody'd dare break, not even in Hollywood." "I know," said Cookie. "But in a case like this, when, almost as if by a miracle, this dress was returned to her — don't you think there could be some kind of special dispensation made, so that she could wear it and — " "It's not a case of anybody making a dispensation," said the artist, interrupting. "It's a case of respecting tradition!" "Well," said the secretary, "I have a feeling, a real strong feeling, that Debbie would want with all her heart to wear it. And in this case I say to heck with tradition." After a little more talk, the two girls turned to us, the editors of Modern Screen. They asked our opinion. We told them, in all honesty, that we didn't know — that we would like to present the question to our millions of readers, and especially Debbie's millions of fans. Well, readers, what do you think? end Debbie stars in Paramount's The Pleasure Of His Company and The Rat Race. When a Girl Becomes a Woman (Continued from page 34) put on her most precious nightie — a shocking pink nylon affair which made her look very grown up — and very sexy. She wanted to wake up feeling grown up and sexy. Instead she woke up feeling exactly the way she had the morning before and the morning before that and the morning before that. "Must get up," she said to herself. "Really must get up. There's so much to do." But before she could she heard a soft tapping on the door. "Come in," she called. Her mother entered the room, carrying a breakfast tray. "Good morning, birthday girl," she said as she kissed Sandy on the cheek. "We're not going to make a habit of this breakfast in bed, you know, but it's not every day a girl is eighteen. And I thought you'd like to look at your cards while you're still in bed." "Oh, thank you, I would," Sandra replied. "But I promise — I'll be up soon." "Take your time," Mrs. Douvan answered. "Remember. This is your day." Then she left the room. Message from a friend Sandy sipped her oranffe juice and opened card after card. It seemed as though everyone remembered. Some cards were cute and sentimental, some gay . . . and a few comic. Then she came across one which she read over and over again. For under the printed message was scrawled — How does it feel to be eighteen at last? How does it feel to be a woman? Why. thought Sandra, it doesn't feel any different at all, really. I look the same. I feel exactly the same as I did when I was 17 years 366 days old — tossing in an extra day for leap year. It's silly for anyone to ask, "How does it feel to be eighteen?" as though one extra day will bring a miraculous change in you. And yet. maybe it's not so silly. When I went to sleep last night I secretly thought there would be a difference in me this morning. She kept thumbing through her cards — and another message seemed to jump out from the white parchment paper upon which it was printed. It was a quote from Longfellow: Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. 70 Wisely improve the Present, It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, Without fear and with a womanly heart. . . . The card was simply signed ... "a friend." Sandra wondered who could have sent it and why there was no name attached to it. Then she read the words again and began to understand the significance of the message — and the significance of the day. Look not mournfully into the Past. . . . Why, she thought, for the past five years, ever since Daddy died, I've been doing just that. Her thoughts wandered to her beloved step-father, the late Eugene Douvan — and she felt the same stab of pain she always felt when she thought of him too much. During the past few years she'd finally become adjusted to her loss — but there were times, like Christmas and her birthdays, when the knowledge that Daddy was irrevocably gone was almost more than she could bear. Particularly on her birthday. Memories of years and years of birthdays kept coming back. She thought of the evenings when he'd come home from work with a sly smile on his face and a package behind his back — and he'd pretend not to remember what day it was — but she knew he wouldn't forget. She'd be dressed up in her prettiest party dress and the whole family would go out to some wonderful restaurant that Daddy would pick for the occasion. And there would always be a cake and candles and his wonderful voice would boom out "Happy Birthday" and it would be the most wonderful night of her year. She remembered her thirteenth birthday particularly. Daddy bought her her first formal — and her first heels. The shoes were white satin, the strapless dress, white, trimmed with red roses. And as a special present Daddy allowed her to wear lipstick for the first time, because they were going out dancing at a very chic and grown-up night-club. She remembered her thirteenth birthday particularly — not only because of the shoes and the dress and the lipstick and the fun, but because it was the very last birthday she shared with Eugene Douvan. A year later he was dead. Snatched from her and her mother by the cruelty of a fate she couldn't and wouldn't understand. When her fourteenth birthday rolled around, she refused any kind of celebration. "What is there to celebrate?" she asked her mother bitterly. "I'm not happy and I can't be happy without Daddy — ever." She wouldn't leave the house — she wouldn't touch the beautiful pink and white cake her mother brought home. Her next three birthdays found her a little happier. She had gone from being a successful model to being a successful actress. She was getting all the best parts and every material thing her heart desired. On her sixteenth birthday she got her first car — a beautiful white Thunderbird. If only Daddy were here to see me drive, she thought. And then even that day lost much of its glory because he wasn't there at all. . . . Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Room for improvement Sandra repeated the words to herself. It's true, she thought. I've looked backtoo much. There may never be another man as dear as Daddy, but even if there is, I wouldn't be able to see it if I keep on making comparisons. Of course I miss him. But I mustn't go on missing him for the rest of my life . . . It's immature — it's futile. He wouldn't want me to be unhappy. I'm luckier than most girls — that I had such a wonderful person in my life even for a little while. Wisely improve the Present, It is thine. Those words went whirling around in Sandy's head as she got out of bed. She looked at herself in the large mirror over her dressing table. She stuck out her tongue to the image she saw reflected. Oh, that's a childish thing to do, she thought. But nevertheless there's still room for improvement. Have to stick to my diet and watch those hips. No more of those crash diet affairs or anything as silly as taking epsom salts to hurry things along. I've got to stop behaving like a fourteen year old when it comes to eating. I've got to stop raiding the ice box at three o'clock in the morning, and stuffing myself with hamburgers and those quarts of ice-cream my unknown suitor leaves at the house each week. If I become as plump as a butterball, Cary Grant will never ask me out. I've got to stop that too. Daydreaming about men like Cary Grant — and getting crushes on all the older stars. It's absolutely sophomorish . . . It's one thing to get a crush on Paul Newman when you're fourteen . . . and hate Joanne Woodward for two weeks after they got marriedthen switch to Rex Harrison and Rock Hudson and Jeff Chandler. But to blush a